


fortune favors the bold

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Jackaby - William Ritter
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: “When recently faced with the possibility of your absence from my life, I was also faced with the depth of my feelings for you.”





	fortune favors the bold

_“There_ you are, you frustrating woman, help me with this.” Jackaby entered the room and awkwardly shoved a book at Jenny.

“He does know how to make an entrance,” said Jenny to no one in particular, examining the book with mild interest. It was a grimoire, not exactly in the best condition, seemingly unremarkable—though, with Jackaby, one could never tell. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to help with?”

“You like fixing things.” Jackaby waved a hand vaguely. “And I—need fixing. That is. I need this fixed.”

At the kettle, Abigail laughed quietly, as though amused by her own private joke. Looking up, she said almost knowingly, “I can help you, if you like. Or is this a matter that only our resident ghost can attend to?”

Jenny looked down at the book, more carefully this time. “This is a simple job,” she said thoughtfully. “Is there something more pressing that needs your attention, or have you decided to take all repairs to me from now on?”

“If you don’t want to fix the book, Jenny, just say so,” said Jackaby almost petulantly.

Frowning, Jenny glanced up at Jackaby. Generally, she prided herself in being able to read his face quite well; that was the sort of thing that came with living with (and caring for) a gentleman for a good five years. But the expression she saw was unreadable, if only because the strong emotions in his eyes weren’t ones she had seen before. “I’ll certainly fix the book if you like,” she said carefully, testing the waters.

“No—if _you_ like—blast—” Jackaby got up from the chair, snatching the book back from Jenny, and walked straight into her. He stumbled, falling back into the laboratory counter, then hurried through the clutter and out of the room.

“Goodness, I didn’t know my newfound tangibility would pose such a problem for him,” Jenny quipped with a half-nervous laugh in her voice.

Abigail was still smiling, eyes sparkling. “I think,” she said, “at the moment, the fact that you’re corporeal is beginning to make Jackaby realize the permanence of your presence.”

“I’m sorry?”

Abigail cocked her head, seeming to consider her words before she spoke. “You’ve chosen to stay,” she said finally. “Before we found out—about Pavel, Howard, Morwen, all those reasons why you died—I think he still believed that Jenny Cavanaugh’s ghost was here on this earth only because she had unfinished business. But now you’re finished. Your murder’s been solved, your lost love’s been redeemed…it’s becoming quite clear to Jackaby that you’re in his life for the long haul, of your own volition. That’s quite a large decision to make.”

This made a lot of sense, Jackaby-wise. He seemed to jump from problem to problem, expecting doors to close when problems were solved. Jenny supposed that this was because, with a life like Jackaby’s, it was easier to live like that, but something about Jackaby considering her a _problem_ instead of a person still made her feel incredibly, irrationally hurt.

Abigail seemed to see these thoughts in Jenny’s face. Looking horrified, she hastened to add, “It’s not—I mean, he doesn’t—it’s not as though he doesn’t care about you! I expect that _that’s_ why he’s so befuddled, honestly. Caring about a problem is much easier to explain away than caring about a person.”

“You know him quite well.” Jenny tried to smile.

Abigail smiled a little awkwardly back. “Comes with the job, I suppose,” she replied. “You fight a few demons together, you’re bound to get to know each other better.” Her smile faded, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Jenny. I’m sorry.”

Jenny breathed out. She knew Jackaby, and she knew that he did care about her, in his own awkward, guarded way. He just wasn’t in the habit of really letting people in. Jenny really could understand that, but it still stung a bit. “Truly, Abigail, I’m fine,” she replied with an easily feigned smile. Deftly, she changed the subject. “Is Charlie coming over for dinner?”

Abigail blushed a happy, rosy red. “I suppose so,” she said, a slow grin blossoming on her face. “He did mention he might stop by.”

Jenny liked Charlie, very much, and a lot of that had to do with how happy Charlie made Abigail. “I’ll cook accordingly,” she said, liking the way that sounds. _I’ll cook. I’ll mix up the ingredients and turn on the stove._ “Heaven knows we’ve survived for long enough on Jackaby’s food. Do you recall the time he attempted to season breakfast with gunpowder?”

Abigail laughed. “Unfortunately.” The kettle went off, and she lifted it carefully from the stove. “Would you like any tea?”

Jenny couldn’t have tea—generally, ghosts couldn’t eat or drink, though Jackaby had talked to her about a few ghosts who can—but she very much appreciated Abigail’s asking. “Thank you, no,” she said gratefully, “though I’ll bring Jackaby a cup.”

“That’s nice of you,” Abigail said, sounding very much like she was trying her hardest to be casual. “So, how are things with you and Jackaby as of late?”

“You _were_ witness to some—” Jenny began.

“I’m not talking about how Jackaby seems to be reacting to you,” Abigail continued as she poured a cup of tea. “I’m talking about how you feel—um, think about Jackaby. Think.” The teacup was brimming over; Abigail barely noticed in time.

If Jenny wasn’t a ghost, she supposed she’d be blushing. Something about Abigail’s inquiries seemed to imply that she knew more than she was letting on. “I think he’s a perfectly lovely man,” she said, which wasn’t any more or any less than she’d ever said about Jackaby. “And a fine detective.”

“Thank you, Jenny,” said Jackaby from the doorway. Abigail jumped and spilled a small amount of tea on the floor. “I suppose tea is ready?”

“It is!” Abigail’s voice was high. She seemed to struggle with herself, then burst out, “You two just—just _figure things out,_ all right?”

Jackaby gave Abigail a long-suffering look and said, “Miss Rook, I am perfectly capable of figuring out my own affairs.”

Abigail picked up one of the cups of tea, looked from Jackaby to Jenny and back again, then said with finality, “I highly doubt that.” She hurried out of the room with her tea, and then it was just—Jenny. Alone. With Jackaby.

Something was different about that, now. It used to be that Jenny and Jackaby were alone together very often, in the periods between assistants and when said assistant was out with family or friends. But Abigail turned out to be different, too, because she was the first of Jackaby’s assistants who came in search of a home instead of a job. Abigail was an extra place setting at the table, and, in his own way, Jackaby had become very fond of that girl.

Jenny very much missed having long conversations with Jackaby, even if most of them were disagreements about what he could and couldn’t demolish in her house. As he poured himself tea, she inquired, “Are you all right? Do you still need me to fix that book?”

“No, I can fix it myself,” Jackaby replied without looking at her.

“I did think so,” said Jenny, sitting down at the kitchen table. “It didn’t look _too_ badly damaged.”

“I thought—” Jackaby hesitated, turning away from the counter to look at Jenny. After a long moment, he finally said, “Seeing as how you seem to take pleasure from doing menial household chores with items you once weren’t able to touch— _and_ tidying up my laboratory even when I expressly state I would prefer that you do not—I thought you might enjoy fixing something that did not belong to you, as you would not have been able to do so in the past.”

This was so thoughtful and so unlike Jackaby that Jenny was momentarily lost for words. “Thank you,” she finally managed, once again glad that her ghostly complexion didn’t allow for blushes.

Inclining his head, Jackaby pulled up two chairs, pouring a second cup of tea before holding it out to Jenny. Jenny took it, thinking back to that first time they’d taken tea together five years ago, and sat carefully down on one of the chairs.

“They’re new.” Jackaby sat down as well, taking a sip from his mug. “I thought you might like some vaguely kitchen-like chairs.”

“And where did you get these?” Jenny inquired, half-amused and half-reproving.

“Oh, around,” said Jackaby vaguely, waving a hand. “Don’t worry. They’re not magical, though they _were_ owned by a family of fairly dreadful trolls. I thought two kitchen chairs a more than fair price for the havoc their owners had been wreaking downtown.”

“How reassuring.” Jenny’s sense of touch was slowly returning, enough so that she could feel the warm smoothness of her china cup. It was small, but it still made her feel happy. “Now, what exactly are you doing, sitting down and having tea?”

Jackaby looked somewhat startled. “Can’t I have tea?”

“Well, yes, you _can,_ ” Jenny replied with light sarcasm, “but generally, at this time of the day, either you and Abigail are running about trying to hunt down a monster or you and Abigail are holed up researching the monster that needs hunting down.”

“It isn’t _always_ a monster,” Jackaby objected.

“You aren’t the sort of person to sit still,” Jenny finished, ignoring him. She wished she could take a dignified sip of tea to drive her point home, and settled for raising the cup to her lips.

“Have you developed the ability to drink tea?” Jackaby inquired with sweetly genuine interest— _genuine_ interest, Jenny corrected herself firmly as she lowered the cup again. “I have heard of some unusual cases in which specters—”

“I’m not one of those unusual cases,” Jenny cut him off gently. “I suppose that I just like feigning normalcy.”

Jackaby nodded, then said almost to himself, “In this case, I do believe that feigning normalcy might be a disservice to us both.”

Jenny frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“Miss Cavanaugh—Jenny—” Jackaby seemed to be fumbling for words. “When recently faced with the possibility of your absence—” He took a breath, placing his mug on the edge of a nearby table. Jenny rolled her eyes a little and got up to remove the mug from its precarious position, moving it to the middle of a stack of books and placing her own cup next to it. “Oh, _don’t,_ ” Jackaby objected, sounding almost relieved at the distraction, “that’s my Annotated History of—”

“Annotated History or not, I won’t have you breaking my dishware when you forget about the mug and knock it to the floor in the middle of an experiment,” Jenny informed him, sitting back down and fixing him with a pointed stare. “What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Jackaby was very quiet. Finally, hesitantly, he said, “When recently faced with the possibility of your absence from my life, I was also faced with the depth of my feelings for you.”

Jenny felt very grateful that she had placed the cup of tea in a safe location, as she was more than certain that she would have dropped it right then.

In their years together, not once had she heard Jackaby be this honest and direct with anyone. Certainly, Jenny knew that he cared for her—regardless of how guarded a man he was, and how much he attempted to pretend otherwise, Jackaby did care very much about the people in his life—but Jackaby himself was not the sort of person to admit to strong emotion. Too many people that he had lost, Jenny suspected. Too many people that he had let himself care for, gone before he could tell them.

She could understand. Empathize, even. She had loved Howard very deeply, and she had lived out fifteen years believing that he’d left her to die. Finding out that he hadn’t was wonderful, but it had also disturbed her; that she’d found it easier to believe someone would leave her than that they might have died for her. As much as Jenny judged Jackaby for his inability to let himself care about people, she found herself facing the same problem more often than not. In a different way, of course, but still the same in essence.

More shocking than that was how unsurprised she was to hear this from Jackaby. It felt inevitable, natural, to hear Jackaby say that he cared for her, and the fact that she wasn’t shocked at all was somehow the most unnerving factor; wasn’t Jackaby always so determinedly closed-off? Shouldn’t she be surprised to hear the man she was in love with say that he genuinely cared about her?

She let herself dwell on that last true statement, the first time she’d unintentionally allowed herself to admit her feelings without reservation, then said very carefully, “Some elaboration would be appreciated.” There was still a chance that she might have misunderstood.

“I am not—not one for romance, or sentiment,” Jackaby continued with awkward tenderness. _Oh,_ Jenny thought, and she felt a fluttery rush. “Most likely due to my alarming inexperience in both of the matters. And I-I’m afraid that this may not be quite the passionate declaration of amorous intentions that I have heard women are partial to—”

It was the first time Jenny had seen Jackaby anything close to uncertain. Choosing her words with care, she answered shakily, “In my own personal experience, I’ve found that any declaration is enough if it comes from the right person.”

“I can understand that,” Jackaby agreed, looking up at her with half-hopeful eyes—as though he didn’t dare to push for anything more or better from her.

Very tentatively, Jenny reached out to Jackaby, almost afraid that her hand might slip through him. But it came to rest comfortably on his shoulder, and she could feel the scratchy material of his jacket. “Jackaby,” she began, not exactly sure what to say or how to say it. Or—truthfully, she had always known what she wanted to tell him, but even now, she didn’t know if she _could._

She remembered her first kiss with Howard, years ago, back when she was brazen and bold and had so much less to lose. Howard, though, so different from Jackaby, had been openly smitten since the day he stumbled into Jenny’s life. Everything about Howard had been open, honest, easily read, and Jenny had loved that about him; back then, she’d been honest too.

But the Jenny Cavanaugh with her hand on Jackaby’s shoulder had kept secrets, some even from herself. And this was Jackaby, who had practically turned secret-keeping into an art. Was it really an honest partnership if the partners were too guarded to give anything important away?

She considered this. When push came to shove, there was really only one thing she had never wanted Jackaby to know; the one thing she’d tried to hide from him for such a long time. Ever so softly, she said, “I’ve always loved you, I think.”

Jackaby didn’t look surprised by this revelation, or at least no more surprised than Jenny had felt at Jackaby’s clumsy declaration. She felt that these feelings had been just below the surface for much longer than both of them had known; present, always, but never spoken of.

He looked happy, though, happier than she’d seen him before, albeit in a shy, tender sort of way. Hesitating, he raised a hand to her face. “As I love you,” he said, hand shaking very slightly as he caressed her cheek.

And Jenny realized right then that those were the only secrets that had ever really mattered to them both.

 _Fortune favors the bold,_ Jenny thought. But it had been so long since she’d had to _be_ bold that she was almost afraid she’d forgotten how. The moment was right, and she’d loved him for so long, but not in the painful, passionate way of stories—even from the beginning, even without admitting it, she had loved him simply and without hesitation.

Jenny looked at Jackaby, who was looking back at her in a beautifully unguarded way she had never seen on him before, and she kissed the man she loved.

* * *

 

“You do have an uncanny talent for fixing things,” Jackaby said, later, examining the significantly-less-battered grimoire before handing it back to Jenny. “Unnerving, really.”

“What a way with words,” said Jenny, and kissed him on the cheek.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this like right before i read the fourth book because i was convinced that jackaby & jenny would be left as a "maybe" instead of a "definitely." i have never been so glad to be wrong in my life.


End file.
